The Unbottled Idol (Chapter 3)

“Alchemy is rightfully praised for ensuring that the Imperial Army remains the world’s premiere military, unrivaled by any force of human barbarians. However, as we have become more dependent on cartridge firearms and carmot body armor, vital skills for combatting dæmons have eroded. Black Hand has become a spectator sport, and the Carmot Blade is now a pastime for bored officers. This complacency is a weakness. Make no mistake, those dæmons who seek our destruction will find a way to exploit it.”

- General Artaxerxes Jahangir, quoted in Nabami Aronoff’s History of the Great War

Kowsari’s driving grows progressively more heart-stopping throughout the day, as the second and then the last of the hunters on my shortlist were eliminated as suspects. We narrowly evade two head-on collisions on our way to interview the eyewitness. However, the moment we cross into the Zenit District, she slows to a safe speed. I think for a moment that she’s apprehensive about what the eyewitness will tell me.

When she outright stops at a pedestrian crossing, I realize she’s just minding herself around the parīs.

“Deh. You couldn’t just fly over the street?” she grumbles, as a line of the winged dæmons hovers through the crossing.

I idly watch the parīs pass. When I first moved to Yanülevi, more than half a decade ago, they fascinated me. Few cities in the Empire have a total dæmon population of more than a hundred individuals, let alone a thousand who are all of the same race and are all women. The fact they obscure themselves beneath flowing gowns, veils, and silk gloves also lends them an air of mystery. However, that novelty wore thin within a year. The population is unremarkable when you consider the millennium-old ties of culture and blood between the parīs and the Yanülevans; the fact they’re all women means nothing once you realize that there are plenty of parī men back in Parīstān; and once one learns why they conceal their beauty, their disguises become as alluring as gas masks.

Kowsari is still venting. “If they’re going to show off, as least they could do it in a way that conveniences everyone else.”

“It’s not showing off, you know.” Through the Veil, I see the mirage-like distortion that wreathes the parīs’ dusky, feathered wings and curls around their legs and feet. “The Winds of Virtue won't permit them to tread on ground sanctified by a god’s blood. They’re also expected to be humble and not elevate themselves above other mortals.”

“Oh? So stepping somewhere the Shepherd bled is taboo? Shouldn't using her bones be graverobbing, then?” Kowsari points at the last parī in the line, who cradles a radio as she floats along after the others.

“The Winds yazatas made their peace with carmot when Yanülevi was absorbed by the Empire.”

“Was Shapiev floating in the back seat of her auto when she died? Because the auto was touching the ground as drawing on the Soul, and she was touching the auto.”

I could run an apologetics gauntlet and explain the specifics to her. I may not be an expert on parīs, but one of my doctorates in is theology, and the Yanülevans worship the same pantheon of yazatas of that the parīs do. Still, I don’t feel like riling Kowsari up. The more she thinks she has the upper hand in things, the more likely it will be that she’ll make a critical mistake.

Kowsari grumbles about the parīs a bit more as the crossing clears. Thankfully, we don't encounter any other obstacles as we wind through the Zenit District. She parks us on a side street without incident.

“Our witness is about two blocks from here,” Kowsari tells me. “I hope you don’t mind a bit of a walk. I don’t want Security to see the auto.”

“I understand. No point in us changing otherwise.”

Coming here in plainclothes already feels like unnecessary skullduggery, especially if Kowsari is so certain that Security won’t take what I’m doing seriously, but anything that helps her feel in control helps. I just wish I’d known this morning that I’d need to wear my own clothes. If I knew I’d be outside in a kurta suit, I’d have picked a different color than navy.

The midday sun bites deep into the dark linen when I clamber out of the auto. My shaved head is coated in sweat within seconds. Growing up, I thought of Yanülevi as a place with mild summers, but that’s because I only knew the dry heat of cities like Kadmía and Ir Habarzel. The humidity here makes things hellish.

I tap into the Soul with a silent prayer. The magmatic warmth of power rising into my body becomes a breezy chill as I bend it to my needs. The magic soaks up my body heat and funnels it down into the ground.

Kowsari eyes me with an amused expression. “Do you realize you pop your jaw every time you do Black Hand things?”

“I’m aware.” I maintain my silent prayer while I size her up. Now that she’s changed out of her uniform and into a green abaya, Kowsari no longer looks like an actor in costume. “How are you not sweating?”

“Sheer willpower. Come on.”

We blend in with the lunchtime traffic of merchants and diplomats heading to restaurants. Most of them are barbarians. The Zenit District may be where the original village of Yanülevi once stood, but now, it’s where wealthy foreigners congregate, taking the historical presence of the parīs as an invitation. None of them spare Kowsari a second glance. I, on the other hand, prompt several double-takes, particularly from the parīs. The first few mildly confuse me – people don’t usually recognize me with my shirt on – but then I remember I wore this same suit to and from last week’s Black Hand tournament.

“Ey vây,” I mutter, shoving my hands into my pockets.

Kowsari snort. “Don’t worry, Yavari. Hiding your hands makes you impossible to recognize.”

Across the street, a pair of parī woman point at me and rummage in their handbags. Their companion, whose silvery veil marks her as a matron, smacks the backs of their heads and ushers them onward. I feel the heat of the matron's glare on me even after they've passed.

“Look at you, corrupting young maidens.” Kowsari clucks her tongue. “Maybe we should have disguised you as a woman. How do you feel about wearing a chador?”

I take my left hand out of my pocket and rub the red stubble on my cheek. “In case you haven’t noticed, I skipped the barber this morning.”

“Oh, I’d shave you before you dress up.”

The thought of her holding a razor to my throat sends a shudder along my spine. “I think I’ll wait for the barber.”

The eyewitness’s home is a stone’s throw from where Shapiev died. The melted wreckage of Shapiev’s auto has already been scraped off the road. The pavement where it sat has been patched; the alchemists on the road crew even weathered the new concrete so that it seamlessly blends with the material around it. There aren’t any uniformed members of the Security Corps here, but that doesn’t mean they’re gone entirely. There’s a delivery van parked on the opposite side of the street that looks far too cheap for this part of the city. On this side, positioned directly across from the scene of the crime, is a fortune teller.

“One draw for just an obol, sir, ma’am,” the fortune teller says as we approach. He shakes a tin of colored cards at us. The canary on his shoulder twitters, perhaps sensing that it’s about to earn a treat.

Then again, maybe the bird’s reacting to whatever’s hidden at the bottom of the tin. The Golden Veil allows me to hear a mournful chiming sound beneath the rattling cards, one that gets louder when the tin is shaken at me specifically. Security must have some sort of talisman in there to pick up on active use of the Soul.

It's too late to let go of the power now. I avoid eye contact with the fortune teller as I brush past. As with the parī matron, there’s a tingle on my neck as his gaze follows me.

To my surprise, Kowsari slows down. In an uncharacteristically bubbly and innocent voice, she croons, “How could I say no to such a precious little bird?”

I look back. The fortune teller shifts his attention to Kowsari as he takes her coin, though he keeps me in his peripheral vision. The canary hops down his arm to pluck a card from the tin and offer it to Kowsari. She reads it quickly and smiles.

“Thank you,” she tells the canary, then she hurries to catch up to me.

“What was that for?” I mutter, continuing onward.

“What does it look like?” Kowsari waves the card at me before tucking it in her pocket. “I needed a fortune told. Ah – here we are.”

We’re arrived at a luxury goods establishment with a sign that reads, Bozorgmehri & Qurbanov – Modern Refinement & Hand-Carved Excellence. Wristwatches, revolvers, and radios sit on display in the front window, each one of which is crafted with as much wood as possible.

Kowsari suggests, “Maybe you should buy one of those watches. If people see an expensive piece like that on your wrist, they won’t even look at your missing finger.”

“If Black Hands made that kind of money, we’d make a career of it.” I open the door. A crystal bell tinkles, and a wave of cool air washes over me.

Much like the front window, the shop’s floor and walls are packed with shelves, stands, and display cases containing devices made from, encased in, or embellished with exotic woods from across the Empire. Ebony lamps carved in the likeness of the Archon hold up shining carmot bulbs; rifles carved from olive and affixed with steel barrels hang upon the walls; a teak phonograph in the corner plays mellow setar music. The proprietors have even invested in oak paneling to cover up the shop’s heat sink, allowing them to keep the space cool without breaking the aesthetic.

That aesthetic can’t keep me from noticing the sheer quantity of enchanted carmot needed to make all these devices work. The Golden Veil exposes me to traces of ozone in the air. More important, though, is what the Soul itself tells me. Carmot taps into the Soul for fuel, and that generates faint tremors. Anyone trained in Black Hand or alchemy would notice how the floor practically hums. That vibration rapidly spreads up my legs; I don’t feel like dealing with blurred vision, so I release my grip on the Soul. The vibration fades from my bones as the Shepherd’s power drains away, but the floor continues to hum.

A Yanülevan man nestles a revolver into one of the display cases. I assume this is Qurbanov. Bozorgmehri is a Kimian surname, after all, and this man’s olive skin and brown hair make it clear that his heritage is pure Yanülevan.

Seeing us, Qurbanov bows. “Salaam va arze adab, Honored Customers. Please, look around. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

In a more hushed version of that bubbly façade, Kowsari says, “Oh, Yavari, that lamp is simply magnificent, isn’t it?”

Her words are just loud enough to mask the metallic click as she locks the door. I feel a faint flutter in the Soul. Glancing back, I see her slip a carmot skeleton key, one of the standard pieces of equipment issued to inquisitors, back into her sleeve.

“Don’t give me that look,” she murmurs, brushing past me to inspect one of the Archon lamps. “Do we want customers or Security to interrupt us? Go talk to the man. I’ll be browsing until you need me.”

I cross the shop, reaching Qurbanov by the time he finishes locking the display case. Straightening up, he asks, “How may our humble establishment serve you today?”

“Information.” I set my portmanteau bag atop the case and fish out my identification. “My name is Captain Mohsen Yavari. I’m with the Imperial Inquisition.”

Qurbanov stiffens. When he reads the little identification booklet that confirms my name and rank, he stands up straighter. There’s a hint of a plea as he says, “I assure you, Captain, that I conduct my business in full compliance with the Archon’s vision.”

“Don’t worry. You’re not under investigation for anything. As I said, I just want to talk to you about a statement you made to your local Mutual Surveillance officer.”

Qurbanov relaxes. “Of course. Anything I can do to help, Captain.”

“Thank you.” I draw the folder with Qurbanov’s statement out of the bag. “Could you please confirm the timeline of events leading up to you witnessing the assassination?”

“I was working late that night. A representative from the Tömörganuud Consulate had come to request a custom rifle for his master. We didn’t finish discussing specifications until an hour after I’d normally close for the evening. I was tidying the shop and removing merchandise from the front window when I saw the yazata Amāstrī stride out of the alleyway and into the street. Before I could make sense of what I was seeing, I saw the consul’s automobile coming towards her. Amāstrī bent down and touched the street, and the moment later, the automobile melted. Then Amāstrī strode back into the alleyway and vanished.”

Thus far, everything matches his statement, but the delivery is far too smooth. He’s recited this story several times. Somehow, I doubt that he told anyone but Mutual Surveillance about what he saw.

Skimming down the statement, I ask, “Could you please confirm Amāstrī’s appearance for me?”

“She was maybe two and a half meters tall. She had a hyena’s head, with gold fur, and she was dressed all in carmine silk, except for a golden headscarf.”

“Could you give me a little more detail about her clothing?”

Qurbanov hesitates. “Her … her kaftan was embroidered with zardozi.” He speeds up as he finishes that sentence, as if hoping I won’t notice the pause.

I glance at him over the top of his statement. “Go on.”

“It was … gold. A pattern that looked like a pack of hyena.” The pause is more noticeable this time, as is his recovery.

Again, everything matches, but I can’t ignore that delivery. I skim through the pages, making sure that the next detail I need to ask about wasn’t part of his statement, before closing the folder and asking, “How was she lit?”

“Lit?” Qurbanov’s mouth hangs open.

“Yes, lit.” I point out the window. “The sun had gone down by then. So how was she lit?”

“By … by the streetlamps.”

It’s the wrong answer, and I’m not the only one who catches it. Kowsari chooses this moment to interject. “‘And Oxathres spoke in prophecy, but the elders were not deceived. They heard the daeva’s tongue within his mouth. Thus was the false prophet put to shame.’”

Qurbanov and I turn. Kowsari stands on the opposite side of the shop, reading off the card she received from the fortune teller. The words tickle at my memory; I’m sure I read whatever scripture she quoted while studying for my theology doctorate.

“I’m sorry?” Qurbanov says, polite but anxious.

“It means you’re a liar.” Kowsari leans – no, sags – against a display case. “You didn’t see a goddess at all, did you?”

“Kowsari,” I say firmly. “Please, let me finish here.”

She folds her arms. “Why? This is open and shut, Yavari. If he really saw Amāstrī at night, he wouldn’t talk about the streetlamps. He’d be singing about how she was daylit, like the sun was shining on her while ignoring everything around her. He clearly doesn’t know that, though, so he saw nothing. Or he saw a dæmon illusion, or some radical in a costume. You can close your case now. File it as a false alarm, and we can all move on with our lives.”

So close.

Rushing along a house call was one thing. Aggressively undermining and discrediting a witness, mid-interview, is another entirely. Under different circumstances, I could report her for that. The fallout would surely expose the hunter she’s hiding.

There’s just one small problem: she’s right. Qurbanov didn’t see anything.

“Whose statement is this?” I demand, turning back to Qurbanov.

His eyes widen. “I don’t –”

I hold up a hand. “Please don’t try to give me the run-around. Who was at the window when the assassination took place?”

“That would be me, Inquisitor,” a coarse voice interjects.

On the back wall of the shop, a door I’d overlooked is now open. A wizened man of Kimian blood stands at the threshold. Even from across the room, I can tell why he asked Qurbanov to make the statement on his behalf. His eyes are opaque with cataracts.

Kowsari shouldn’t be one of them, yet she blunders onward. “Well, Yavari. I’d say this is quite the dead end you’re walked into. Your services are no longer –”

“Zahre mâr!” I snap, then address the old man in a more civil tone. “Are you Bozorgmehri?”

“Yes, but Aahil will do.” The old man doesn’t look at me as he speaks.

I silently invoke the Shepherd, and the Soul surges up into me. Aahil’s face immediately turns my way. His white eyes following the power as it flows up through my being, until finally, he meets my gaze.

“I saw you fight last year,” he declares.

“I believe you.” I ball my right hand into a fist. “Tell me when I hold up my pinkie.”

After several long seconds, Aahil declares, “Now.”

He timed it perfectly. I’ve just raised my right pinkie – or, rather, the knuckle that’s all that remains of that finger, thanks to some nameless thug with a shamshir. The Soul tries to force its way into the missing flesh. A diamond phantasm of a finger, tipped in a manticore’s claw, flickers at the end of the knuckle, visible only to those with the Veil.

“You must be joking!” Kowsari explodes. “Are you missing the fact that this man is blind, Yavari? There’s no chance that an inquisitorial tribunal is going to take his word as evidence!”

Got you.

I put my hand down and allow the Soul to drain before walking over to Kowsari’s side. In a murmur, I tell her, “If we’re going to be thorough about this investigation, we’re going to need to get into the Parīstāni Consulate and Shapiev’s residence. Could you get started on getting us a way in?”

“You’re not shaking me off that easily, Yavari. Besides, we’re wasting our time here. We -”

“If you really feel we’re wasting time, then let’s get this over with. Give me her name and address.”

Kowsari’s face becomes an impassive mask. It’s too little, too late. She overstepped, and from the narrowing of her eyes, she knows it. Still, she attempts a final bluff. “Whose?”

“Whomever you’re trying to keep off the Register.” I glower at her. “Or we can go back to the chapterhouse, and I can tell Prelate Dutt about you slandering an eyewitness to protect your friend’s child.”

That last line was a shot in the dark, but from the way Kowsari’s jaw tightens, I hit my mark. “I’ll meet you back at the auto in two hours.” Her voice is subdued now, if more frustrated.

I nodded. “I’ll have what I need by then.”

Kowsari strides to the door. She fumbles with the handle for a moment before remembering the skeleton key. Unlocking the door, she sweeps out into the summer heat.

I exhale heavily before I face Aahil again. “May we speak privately? I’d like to ask you some follow-up questions.”

Thank you all for joining this week! Chapter 4 releases July 22nd!

Mohsen’s case takes an unexpected turn when his eyewitness reveals the true reason for Amāstrī’s intervention. The situation has grown more dire - yet in it, he finds a new opportunity.

I hope to see you all then!